Four Nights With The Devil

by Peter Hockley

  “I’ve got to go!” I blurted. I am not certain what Mum was thinking, but she rose from her chair and asked with a frown, “Where have you got to go?” Both Mum and Aunt Jane, who was also in the room, have since agreed that they have never seen a person as scared as I was on that awful night. They said that my skin had gone deathly pale. The phrase, you look like you’ve seen a ghost wasn’t quite accurate, but it was heading in the right direction. The only sentence which fell out of my mouth was the same as before. “I’ve got to go, Mum! I’ve just got to go!”

  My mother crossed the room to meet me. I stood there shaking so badly it must have looked like I was convulsing. Not only was I racked with fear, my body was ice cold. Even as Mum asked again where I needed to be, devils were screaming at me.

  YOU’RE GOING TO DIE TONIGHT!

  “Debbie’s,” I managed to say. “I have to go to Debbie’s!”

  Mum looked confused and concerned, though before any more could be said, I gripped her by the arm and dragged her out of the room, through the kitchen and to, of all places, the bathroom. I have no idea what my aunt made of it all, though she stayed where she was. satan’s torment was incessant, so intense it must have appeared to Mum that her son had gone insane. Inside the bathroom I told her everything—my interest in religion, intrigue with Islam, buying a strange new book that resulted in automatic writing with “God”, who now revealed himself as the devil. It all tumbled out of my mouth – I was rambling so fast I barely drew breath. I knew it all must have seemed fantastic to her ears, though Mum showed great patience and calm, when the sight of my affliction could so easily have ignited her own distress.

  All the time I talked, wicked voices pounded me, invaded my thoughts and disrupted my confession.

  SHE WON’T BELIEVE YOU!

  SHE THINKS YOU’RE MAD!

  Frantic, I interrupted myself constantly. I begged Mum to believe me, so afraid was I that she would accuse me of losing my mind and walk away. I wasn’t crazy. My mother gently assured me that she didn’t think I was. At the same time I came clean to Mum, my body fought against me, twitching in uncontrollable spasms and my head jerking like someone avoiding a wasp that buzzed around their face. Simultaneously, my right hand had gone berserk, scratching my scalp raw and clawing at my face and upper body; I probably looked more of a deranged beast than a man. Every few seconds, without warning, either my right elbow or fist lashed out and struck the wall hard beside me. I felt the pain each time but had no power to stop myself. There was more, too: All the while I stood in the bathroom, as the other violent convulsions happened, the index finger of my left hand—the one not lashing out—traced invisible letters across my chest, writing the same sentence repeatedly on my body: I H A T E Y O U

  I struggled to keep my train of thought. satan bore away at my mind relentlessly:

  I HATE YOU!

  I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!

  The devil swore and cursed at me with the most vulgar language. Then, my ears echoed with something that struck like a hammer and I felt my stomach tighten in nauseating fear.

  WHEN DEBBIE COMES, KILL HER!

  PICK UP A KNIFE

  STAB HER!

  Immediately I saw myself in a vision, standing with a carving knife in my fist. Debbie and her family screamed as I bore down on them and plunged the blade into their flesh. The mental picture jumped and I beheld the blood spattered bodies of my friends, twisted and lifeless at my feet.

  The sight of these horrific images made me stop talking at once and cried out in a wail of anguish. I was incapable of such savagery and violence, but how could I prevent satan from making these gruesome scenes in my head a reality? The evil one possessed me, his control was irresistible and I imagined he had the power to do with me as he pleased, even to the point of murdering my loved ones. I shook with panic and went to pieces as it sunk in that, in minutes, Deb and the others could be dead, brutally slain by my own hands. The mental punishment was overwhelming. Everything was moving too quickly and happening all at once – it felt as though my brain was frying.

  KILL THEM!

  KILL ALL OF THEM!

  The devil roared threats of murder. Then another voice, encouraging and absent the satanic malice, told me:

  Pray to Jesus. Help is coming

  My mind was so weak, near broken with the unimaginable strain and fatigue. But even as demons thrashed me still, from somewhere in the farthest corners of consciousness, I prayed and pleaded for Christ to have mercy on my soul. “Oh, Jesus, help! Please help me!”

  I have no idea how long Mum and I were in the bathroom; I had lost all concept of time. Amazingly, my mother was as calm as ever. She laid a caring hand on my shoulder and told me that even though she couldn’t explain what was going on, if I felt like Debbie could help then I should go to her immediately and be free of this torment.

  “I have to become a Christian, Mum!” Surprised to hear myself saying the words, only now considering the notion for the first time, I knew what I had said was true. I had no idea what was involved in adopting Christianity – what was necessary for me to say or do, or what was required of me once conversion was complete. I knew nothing about living a Christian lifestyle, save what I had seen on TV and in the movies. Regardless of my ignorance, I knew unequivocally that, should I survive this night (and I still wasn’t sure that I would), I could not go another day without being a Christian. No matter what it took, I had to become a follower of Jesus.

  As long as I live, I will always remember what my mother – the atheist and unbeliever – said next. She told me that she had never forced any kind of belief system on me because right from the day of my birth she wanted me to find my own way. One of my biggest fears during the time I had sought after God was that, when I finally told my mum, she would react badly; that maybe she would try to persuade me religion was a silly idea or, worse, hound me into changing my mind and reverse my decision. My beautiful mother told me, however, that I had her full support. It was her wish that I discover life, faith and – if I so chose – God entirely on my own; in my own time and in my own way. Given the situation the graciousness of her words went over my head, though afterward, looking back, I was deeply moved by what Mum told me that dreadful night and I love her all the more for it.

  “We’ve got to burn everything!” I found myself saying in a panic. The idea had come to me out of nowhere. “All the books and stuff – we have to burn them!”

  Mum nodded and led the way out of the bathroom and back through the house toward the stairs. I was so afraid and was made all the more nervous wondering why Debbie was taking so long to arrive.

  WHEN SHE GETS HERE, KILL HER!

  KILL HER WITH A KNIFE!

  YOU WILL KILL HER!

  I felt sickened.

  I’LL MAKE YOU DO IT!

  YOU’RE GOING TO DO WHAT I SAY!

  I saw Debbie on the floor, crying out in pain and covered in blood. The image was so vivid, it terrified me to think satan was about to make me do it for real. In the very back of my thoughts I heard the second voice – soft, reassuring and everything that the demonic voices were not.

  Remember that the devil is a liar. You must resist his words. Turn to Jesus

  Calling on Christ under my breath, I followed Mum up the stairs to my room, creeping cowardly behind her. When she got to the door and reached for the doorknob I yelled at her to wait. I was like a five-year-old child again, afraid of monsters hiding in the wardrobe. My mother looked back over her shoulder at me and smiled, said something comforting and then opened the door. I peeked nervously into the room, half expecting to see demons with my eyes, waiting for us, frightening and filling the room. When I saw no monsters, I pushed passed Mum, picked the notepad off the bed and showed her, flicking through the pages of written conversations, going back three nights. “See – look at all of this! All of it since Friday. I told you!”

  Mum took the pad and examined it carefully, while I started gathering up books relating to “God” a
nd various other religious literature I still owned. “We’ve got to burn it all!” I said, hurriedly scooping them all up. I wanted to get out of that room as fast as I could. My heart thumped hard again (had it ever really slowed?) and a new wave of fear gripped me as the evil spirits took a different approach with me. In my mind, I suddenly heard this:

  YOU’RE DEAD, PETE!

  NONE OF THIS IS REAL.

  I’VE ALREADY KILLED YOU

  I stopped what I was doing and froze. My skin tingled.

  REMEMBER I SAID I WOULD KILL YOU IF YOU TOUCHED THAT PHONE? WELL, I DID!

  YOU’RE DEAD, YOU STUPID ------- -------!

  I KILLED YOU!

  THIS IS HELL!

  Mum, oblivious, was collecting all the many books that were strewn across the floor. A chill ran up and down my body. My mind twisted in knots of confusion.

  YOU’RE DEAD! NONE OF THIS IS REAL! RIGHT NOW YOUR MOTHER IS DISCOVERING YOUR DEAD BODY ON THE FLOOR OF YOUR ROOM. I MADE YOUR HEART EXPLODE.

  THIS IS HELL AND YOU’RE GOING TO LIVE THIS NIGHT OVER AND OVER FOREVER!

  For several, agonizing seconds I was lost in doubt and fear. I stood, mouth open in pained desperation, watching my mother bent over and picking up books. Flashing through my imagination, I saw her instead bent over my own dead body, cradling my lifeless corpse in her arms and wailing. I couldn’t tell truth from lies. Looking around the room, I actually wondered if anything was real. Perhaps I was already dead, swallowed by hell and now condemned for eternity to experience this dreadful night. Whatever small amount of determination I had gained was sucked right out of me, as I tumbled once again into delirium and fearfulness.

  You’re not dead. He’s a liar. Remember that he’s a liar! Keep going - burn everything

  “He’s a liar,” I echoed with my own mouth. “The devil is a liar.”

  We had all the books now and I wasted no time in leaving the room. Before dashing out as quick as I could, I snatched my mobile phone. I had left it lying on the bed when I fled the room the first time. We went straight to the back garden and I watched from a distance, shivering – and not merely from the winter air – as Mum set everything down and proceeded to make a small fire. She tore handfuls of pages out of the books and added them to the flames. After a while the whole lot was ablaze and dark smoke rose into the night sky. It all went up, including the three books about “God” by the American author, two of which – the ones bought on Sunday – I had not even opened yet. The notepad containing every conversation with “God” was burnt and even the pens used to write them with; I had used two different biros over the weekend – one, black and the other, blue – and they both went into the fire.

  Images of hell and damnation flickered before my eyes. I couldn’t go anywhere near the fire and, like a frightened child, I stood well away. Anxiously awaiting Debbie’s arrival, I looked at my mobile and noticed that there were multiple missed-calls logged, at least three text messages and a message on my answer-phone too. All were from Deb’s phone. I dialled the automated answer-phone service and pressed the playback option. Waiting for the recording to play, I shuffled continuously from one foot to the other. At last, the message began and Debbie’s voice came back through the speaker:

  “Hi, Pete - it’s Debbie. I came with my mum in the car and we waited outside your house for ten minutes. I tried calling, but you didn’t answer. If you can, please try and make it to my house. Please – we’ll all be waiting. God bless you. Bye.”

  Debbie had already been to the house, while I was still in the bathroom with Mum, and I missed her call because I left my phone on the bed upstairs. And now she had driven off, without even coming to the front door. At this my nerve failed, all confidence in Jesus Christ evaporated and the fear of a torturous death by cruel satanic forces rose afresh. I wondered why my friends had given up on me. Maybe they’re unable to help me, I considered. Perhaps the Christians knew that their faith and the God they followed was not powerful enough to save me. If that was the case then I was truly lost. I replayed the message and noted Debbie’s insistence that I go as soon as possible to her house. From within, I heard a still, small voice urging me to action:

  You must go to Debbie’s house. Help is there

  It seemed to take forever for the books to burn. Mum casually turned the paper over in the flames, making sure that everything was thoroughly destroyed, while I remained at a distance, afraid and still twitching involuntarily and scratching myself. The lies continued as wicked as ever:

  I’M GOING TO KILL YOUR MOTHER!

  WATCH! I’LL MAKE THOSE FLAMES LEAP UP AND BURN HER ALIVE!

  Worried for her safety, I wanted to rush over and pull my mother from danger but a terrible, shameful fear kept me rooted on the spot. I had visions of my mother being engulfed in a fireball – I could already hear her screaming in agony. With every second that passed I waited for it to happen in reality. Whenever the small bonfire snapped and crackled even a little, I cried out in panic – almost in tears – for Mum to be careful. The devil screamed threats at me:

  SHE’S GOING TO DIE!

  “Mum, look out!” I bawled.

  My mother looked up from the fire and smiled.

  She assured me that everything was okay. Her stillness, unmoved and collected was amazing and in stark contrast to my own agitated and disturbed manner.

  I’M GOING TO KILL HER!

  WATCH THOSE FLAMES

  SHE’S GOING TO DIE RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU!

  My stomach knotted in sickening distress, but I was too afraid to move. It was an agonizing wait for those flames to die out. Seconds felt like minutes and minutes like hours. Finally, after an impossibly long time, I noticed the fire was fading and my mum—still very much alive—announced that she was finished. Going back to the front of the house, I told her about Debbie’s message and explained that I would have to go to my friend’s house, alone. My mother asked if I was sure that I could make it by myself. Coherent thought was still a struggle, amid never ending waves of satanic assault, although one thing was clear: My only refuge would be Debbie’s house. I had to get there or I was finished.

  NO! I HAVE YOU! YOU’RE MINE!

  I knew that I had to leave immediately, because satan was breaking my spirit. I was exhausted, completely drained of strength, with energy levels that were entirely depleted. Every muscle felt sluggish, unresponsive and unbearably heavy. The devil’s attack on my mind and body was so intense I was gradually crumbling under the constant pressure. Part of me actually contemplated yielding to him altogether; resistance was proving too tiring and it was increasingly difficult to muster the strength to keep fighting him. My mind wandered and vision came in and out of focus. My eardrums hurt from the constant buzzing and my head felt crushed as if in a vice. Perhaps satan was too powerful after all; why struggle any longer if defeat and subjugation were inevitable?

  I’LL NEVER LET YOU GO!

  My arms were limp at my sides. The devil had won. Why not just let him have me.

  Don’t give up. Debbie can help you

  My feet, heavy like lead, refused to move anywhere and my eyes gazed blankly into space. Heart-pounding fear dissolved into a sad, despondent acceptance that my life was over. Darkness coiled its way around me and, slowly, I surrendered.

  It’s not too late. GO NOW!

  The command to go was a hot iron, branding itself on the walls of my mind. The words came so clear it was as though someone was speaking with their mouth to my ear. I looked out beyond the garden and up the road lit by the dull glow of street lamps, past the row of cars parked along the kerb, until the sharp left corner where all vanished into blackness. Around that corner and five minutes further was Debbie’s house. Help was so near. A greater distance would have been too much, but Debbie and her family were five minutes away. Only five minutes on foot.

  You can make it

  I could make it.

  I turned to Mum and told her that I would be staying the night in Debbie’s home. I kn
ew for certain that, after the events of this night, I wouldn’t need to ask Auntie Margaret’s permission – she would let me stay there. Mum agreed and promised that she would telephone St. Anne’s College in the morning and simply tell them that I was unavailable for work and leave it at that. I thanked my mother, sincerely, for everything and then, before walking to the front gate, found myself saying one last thing. It was something I couldn’t recall ever saying to her—something I would have been far too embarrassed to put into words in the past, though felt no shame in declaring at that moment: “I love you, Mum. I really do and I’m sorry that I never tell you.” We hugged tightly and, in return, my mother replied that she loved me and always would, no matter what. Then, with wide eyes, full of compassion and the warmest smile, she urged me, “Now go to Debbie’s and be well.”

  I turned and set off. When I reached the gate and swung it open, before I even got a foot outside, the devil said something that stopped me in my tracks.

  REMEMBER THE DREAM?

  I lingered, my hand on the metal gate, without stepping out. I knew exactly which dream he was talking about. I could never forget. Although it had been more than six years since that night, the images were seared into my brain. The vivid pictures had flashed through my head non-stop since this awful waking nightmare began.